Iconoclasm
by Lady Raion
Summary: Oneshot Giftfic. Post-game. SqxZ. Mild M. Sometimes we have to break the things we hold in highest regard...


Note: This was written as a Christmas gift for my friend Merci. This is my first Final Fantasy 8 story in years, and my first yaoi to boot. It was a challenge for me to write, and hopefully I wasn't too far off the mark with it.

Disclaimer: All characters, locations, and concepts from the game Final Fantasy 8 belong to Square Enix.

Iconoclasm

The door slid shut behind him with a soft hiss, sealing away behind it the faint but coldly functional illumination of the hallway's night time backlighting. The golden glow of the candles placed around his dorm room made for a sharp contrast as they warmed the darkness with a sultry, dreamy haze. Stepping into his room was like leaving reality behind outside the door. In a way, he supposed, it was a very true observation anyway.

The air was thick with musky tones of sandalwood accented by the lightest traces of sweat and cologne. The only sound was the heavy, increasingly erratic rasp of breath from the corner of the room. Flesh typically pale as the snowfields of Trabia shone tawny in the buttery wash of light. The light did not flicker or dance with shadows. The fire was false. Leaving a number of real candles lit was not a good idea when the room's sole occupant was chained to the bed and blindfolded, even if said occupant was only left alone for ten minutes.

With uncharacteristically slow and careful movements, he toed off his worn athletic shoes and socks. These were left by the door as he took a short moment to arm the locking mechanism. There could be no disruptions. There _should _be no disruptions. For all intents and purposes, he was upstairs dutifully helping his commander finish off the outrageous stack of paperwork on his desk. The lie called to a long-buried fantasy that involved the object of his affections and an over-sized mahogany desk, but that would never come to fruition. He let slip a quiet sigh and allowed his eyes to run the length of the powerful body offered to him against dark sheets. No, this was all they could ever have, and it would simply have to be enough.

He crept closer, so slowly. So quietly. It had become easier with time to still his tongue and restrain his body from leaping upon what it wanted so badly. With training, he had become more skilled at this game. His reward for playing this early stage well was the heaving of that deliciously muscled chest as increasingly shorter breaths were drawn. That graceful throat rippled as his lover swallowed. A pink tongue darted out to moisten full lips. It was becoming easier for him to let go. But, as if realizing what he was doing, the unnerved tautness in his face disappeared to be replaced by the habitual mask of impassivity.

Brushing a hand through spiky golden locks, Zell averted his eyes. He was getting too hard too fast. If past experiences had taught him anything, it was that distraction was the key to self-restraint. He focused on slipping off his ever-present fighting gloves, followed by his shirt. The cloth hit the floor with a muted rustle and he watched his lover for a reaction. There was the slightest clench of his jaw and nothing more. Zell suppressed a whine in his throat as he realized it was going to be a difficult night. The other man was in a more stubborn mood than normal, it would seem.

Several moments of absolute silence and stillness passed before the handcuff chains rattled with the movement of restless limbs. Zell unbuttoned his shorts, drew his fingers in a lingering caress across his denim-encased bulge before easing the zipper down. The soft hiss of it beckoned a tension into his lover's muscles, a tension that increased at the sound of the denim pooling on the carpet. He hadn't bothered with underwear. It was Monday, after all, which placed Rinoa in the training center for a few hours of sorceress training with Edea.

With his clothing gone, the first phase of the game was finished. Much to Zell's delight. As much as he enjoyed just sitting back and looking his fill, he was really much more of a hand's on kind of guy. But where to start?

In all truth, he sometimes hated having the man in this spread eagle position on the bed. While it made most of his best parts easily accessible, it also meant that his face was visible. Yes, his eyes were hidden beneath a blindfold, but there was still the familiar curve of his lips that Zell had traced with his eyes a million times before, and that diagonal scar cutting across his forehead that Zell had wanted to kiss ever since Seifer branded him with it. The face of the man that had always seemed so far out of his reach, and was still so far from his reach despite lying in wait before him. The reminder was a stabbing ache in his chest. He thought about kissing those beautiful lips or even the scar he so admired, but Squall was not here for tenderness. He'd been drowning in that for months.

Instead he started by drawing his finger nails down the hard lines of Squall's chest. He'd grown them out just a little from their usual useless, blunt nothingness just to please the brunette. And the brunette did seem pleased, as he jerked ever so slightly in reaction. Raised red lines stood out upon the otherwise unmarred flesh, and Zell lowered his head to soothe them with his mouth. The skin was salty sweetness against his tongue, the rippling of muscles beneath even sweeter. The wet trail ended at Squall's collarbones, and Zell sank his teeth against the bone, a fraction of pressure away from drawing crescents of blood. Breath hissed from Squall's clenched teeth. Out of pleasure, out of pain, Zell was never quite sure. He supposed it didn't matter as the two sensations seemed to exist in sinful symbiosis to his commander.

Zell settled himself against the bed and studied the marks that he'd made. They were angry crimson against increasingly flushed skin and the sight of them made Zell's heart twist. He didn't like the way they looked against the contours of his commander's body. Such strength humbled beneath petty wounds, inflicted with his hands no less. A rush of anger ignited against the control Zell had been gripping so tightly, and he found himself smashing his lips against those of his captive. The kiss was hard and punishing, teeth clashing against teeth, lips threatening to bleed beneath the abuse of hard bites. Mouths opened and tongues dueled in a wet, heated vie for dominance. A groan rose in Zell's throat and he barely managed to fight it back. He hated that this always had to be a battle for them, but he loved beyond anything the way that it felt.

The blonde ended the kiss abruptly, paused to rake his teeth against Squall's jaw, and licked a trail down his neck. He had to be careful that he didn't leave marks where clothing couldn't cover them. He settled his body against Squall's and reveled in the unrelenting press of the other man's form. Unable to help himself, his hips jerked forward and the rub of their arousals sent a coil of pleasure winding through Zell's body. With shuddering breath he moved against his lover, heightening the urgency as fire licked at his skin and promises of euphoria appeared on the horizon. The brunette beneath him twitched and jerked in spasmodic movements that spoke of resistance, even while the muscles in Zell's body tensed and strained in search of control. He forced his body to halt its rhythmic undulations and drew up to his knees so that his body hovered over Squall's, basking for a moment in the heat radiating from their sweat-slicked skin.

Though it often seemed to him that time stood still within this small slice of paradise, he was distantly aware of the minutes ticking away. With every second that slipped into oblivion, the chance that they might be discovered heightened. Even if it was impossible for anyone to simply barge in on them, all it would take was someone picking up the clues and filling in the blanks to complete the simplistic equation of the truth. If someone so much as noticed their joint absences, scheduled on a weekly basis, the whisper of suspicion would be enough to condemn them both.

Some reckless part of him longed for the ruination that would follow. Luckily, he had learned to control that part of himself most of all.

There was no time, then, to further torture the brunette softly panting beneath him. It was a tragedy to release him so soon and yet, what would Zell do if he had him for hours? There were only so many times in one evening that he could stand to break the person he held most dear.

The battle began again with a slightly awkward shuffling of muscled limbs as Zell maneuvered himself between his commander's legs. It would be rough going, it was always rough, but Squall liked it that way. Or so he had told Zell, in a faintly embarrassed and indirect way. The friction was a sensation of blinding magnitude that tested the thin threads by which Zell's control dangled. Squall was biting his lip to muffle any noise that might attempt to work out of his throat. Entering was always a slow and precarious process, as it threatened to unhinge both of them far too quickly but for distinctly different reasons. Zell's fingers curled in the sheets, and then in his lover's hair with demanding force as he reminded himself what was wanted of him.

There was a moment of stillness. The unsynchronized rasping of breath that filled the silence created a gentle song of lust. Zell held himself back for a moment. Just a moment, until Squall was squirming again. Then the rhythmic creak of abused bedsprings joined the whispering verse of their labored exhalations to create a disjointed chorus.

It was at once a beautiful and ugly sound. It spoke of both a warm intimacy and a tawdry act steeped in secrecy. It wasn't the sound Zell was searching for. He drove for his goal in short, hard movements that seemed to have more intent to punish than please. There was still anger there in the harsh strength of his body. In the pull of his fingers through fragile silken locks. In the stinging contact his palm made with rounded flesh.

When he heard it, the breathy moan nearly indiscernible among the panting, Zell crushed his eyes shut and grappled with the singing nerves within his body to slow his movements. It went against every instinct he possessed to slow his hips to a grind. Pleasure crawled over his body from where he was joined with Squall and lights threatened to explode beneath tightly shut eyes. If he looked at Squall, it would all be over.

After several moments the silent pleading began. Squall's hips lifted to meet Zell's in a persuasive gesture. It had been at this late stage that Zell had so often faltered before. Everything within his body screamed at him to claim what he wanted or stop altogether, but with an audible swallow he continued his achingly sluggish pace. This was just as much his torture as it was Squall's.

The dance continued in this way for a few tense moments as the strain of Squall's muscles gave way to more insistent movements. Writhing, eyes shut, a growl rose in his throat as he struggled with the only enemy he could never fully defeat, the one inside him that wanted everything but wanted to give nothing. Zell silently begged for Squall to deal the lethal blow to his pride before Zell lost himself to his impulsive nature.

"Zell," the name rubbed Zell's mind like velvet, even as it ground deep in Squall's throat through dry gravel. "Please."

The blonde shuddered at the word, and his body leapt ahead of his mind. Control was tossed aside with a snap of Zell's hips and the next few moments were a wild tangle of motion, sweat, and moaning that built to a crescendo of physical bliss.

Zell opened his eyes. It was in this moment that his hero shattered to become a mere man. The icy neutrality that typically formed his features fell away into a contortion of pleasure, mouth open and white teeth bearing down into a full bottom lip. The even monotone of his normal voice splintered as his breath hitched, voice broken and raw in a wordless expression of ecstasy. The power, the pride, the courage that had made this man a world renowned legend was useless in the face of such a simple, primal act. The man that Zell had always admired so deeply, the man that had saved his life and lead him into battle countless times, had been felled. If only for the briefest of moments, Zell had killed him. And in that death was something frightening and beautiful.

The competition between adoration and remorse fogging Zell's head dissipated as every cell in his body narrowed focus south of Zell's waist before exploding in a firestorm of color and light. Fingers and toes curled, eyes squeezed shut, and the name burning at the tip of his tongue was stifled into a senseless groan.

Afterwards there was always an awkward stillness as the two caught their breath. On every other Monday evening they had shared together, Zell would climb to his feet with shaky limbs and head into the bathroom adjoining his room. Numb, absent movements would summon a cold spray of water to cleanse his skin. Even as his epidermis was freed from the clinging layer of sweat and sex, there would always be a weight on his heart. Occasionally he might mutter "never again" or "no more" to himself against the icy cascade, but the words and sentiments behind them washed away with the spent seed on his body and became nothing more than stinging echoes to be forgotten by the next week.

In the scant five minutes this process took, his leader would pull his pieces together again. Zell would emerge from the bathroom fully dressed to unlock the handcuffs at Squall's wrists, and then he would leave his room for a while. When he returned, Squall was always gone and they avoided each other as best as they could manage for at least a day or so. Zell never knew exactly what Squall thought of the whole dirty affair, he only knew that the absence birthed the poignant ache of longing in his chest, to the point that any regret crumbled away beneath desire.

This evening was different, however. Things had changed, or would change. The rumors had been flying for days, fueled by the loose lips of a certain Garden Festival planner. That silly witch was going to ask Squall to marry her. As Selphie had explained, Rinoa was afraid Squall was too shy to ever ask her himself.

Squall might still come to him even after he had sworn his loyalty to Rinoa in front of Hyne and the congregation of his friends and co-workers. Even still, things wouldn't be the same. Squall would be hers, if in name only, and the idea of it churned bitter emotions in the pit of Zell's stomach.

So, on this evening, weight held on one arm, he unlocked the handcuffs binding Squall's wrists. First one, then the other. Confusion pulled the brunette's lips into a frown, but he reached up immediately and slid the blindfold from his eyes. Zell's breath caught. It was the first time he had ever seen Squall's eyes during the few fragile moments of afterglow.

There was vulnerability and softness there, glaciers melted into liquid pools. In the thaw of that common frigidity Zell could see what others could not. Squall was not a hero. He was a man. A mere mortal man caught in the spinning cogs of a much larger machine that had been grinding at his humanity for far too long. In the face of this machine his wants and needs were inconsequential. When the garden needed a commander, he became a commander. When Rinoa needed a knight, he became a knight. When the world needed a savior, he became a savior. He'd never had a choice. Now the world expected their hero to be an upstanding military man. They expected him to have a normal life. To marry his beautiful girlfriend, fuck her and have beautiful kids. And he would do it, because that was who Squall Leonhart was. Unbreakable.

Except in Zell's hands. Any anger the blonde might've felt before at being forced to break his idol drifted away with his understanding. Someone had to break Squall to remind him that he was still human, and only Zell cared enough to do it. Everyone else expected a larger than life hero. Zell realized that the true hero was the man suffering atop the pedestal.

Zell abruptly found his face being pressed into the chest of his lover. Minutes crawled forward in a haze of heavy breathing and cooling skin. The rhythmic thump of Squall's heart almost lulled Zell to sleep, but he didn't allow himself to be pulled under. This moment was too precious to waste.

When he reluctantly realized that their time was almost up, words flew from Zell's mouth before he could think to stop them.

"She's going to pop the question."

"I know," came the soft reply.

Of course he would.

"So..." Zell paused. He didn't want to ask, but he had to know. "What happens then?"

"Mondays will still be good for me. If they are for you."

Zell knew he should say no. He knew that in the end the only thing this dangerous game would permanently break was his heart.

But for all the restraint he'd had to teach himself just to shatter the restraints of his lover, he knew he didn't have the self-control to stay away for long. No, he would keep playing along, until Squall was finished with him, or until both of their worlds fell to that tempting ruination.

"Monday is fine for me. But if I'm going to be the other woman, I think you should at least buy me lunch beforehand."

The fire was false. The faint light was fleeting. But wasn't the warmth of the glow, however temporary, beautiful enough?


End file.
